


With Love

by stillicidiums (disjointedeloquence)



Category: United States of Tara
Genre: Absent Parents, Child Neglect, Drug Addiction, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Other, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6576931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disjointedeloquence/pseuds/stillicidiums
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He meant it with love. Everyone who says it does. You tell yourself this. You tell yourself this again, and again, and again. You tell yourself that people call you a fag because they love you, because you deserve it, because it’s true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Love

“Fags,” says Josiah, lightly touching your shoulder as he passes.

“You want this shit so badly, you dream about it, Josiah!” you yell. He keeps walking, quiet. You smirk to yourself and turn back to Marshall.

“You ruin it for gay people, Lionel,” he says, pulling his shirt on.

You scoff at him. You hope the look you’re giving him is communicating the incredulity you feel.

“I mean, you do,” he says. “You ruin it. You make being gay something _no one_ would _ever_ want to be. It’s like…you’re _asking_ for it, like you _live_ for it, like you _want_ Josiah Werkheimer to call you a fag.”

“He means it with _love_ ,” you say, in your sweetest, softest voice.

He rolls his eyes, and stares at you.

 

“Look, Marshall,” you say, pulling at the strap of your bag. “You know what? You can _pretend_ that you’re ‘I’, or bi, or exploring, or discovering or, you know, whatever you want to call it. But look in the mirror, dude, I mean…check out your shorts.” He looks down. “You…very _clearly_ ordered the gay size.”

He straightens up and glares at you. “Your…your fucking _face_ is the fucking gay size,” he says, loud, looking right into your eyes. For once in your life, you can’t formulate a response. “I’m not you, okay, Lionel?” he says, turning to walk away.

All you can do is watch. You can’t speak. You’re not sure you’re even breathing. You watch him walk away, and then you watch the empty locker room he leaves behind. The silence threatens to strangle you.

 

You keep thinking about it. You think about it on your way home. You think about it when you walk past your motionless mother on the couch facing some reruns on the TV. You don’t know if she’s high or sleeping. You never know anymore. You never ask anymore. You’ve stopped trying.

You drop your bag and flop onto your bed. You think about your dad.

You were ten when you came out - or, when you fell out of the closet flat onto your face. You were ten when your father’s face contorted into some combination of sick glee and loosely-bridled rage. You remember the way your breath caught as you looked at the magazine in his hands, as you berated yourself for not hiding it better.

You remember the way it lit him up to finally have confirmation that he had been right all alone. You remember him spitting out the words two inches from your face: “Goddamn faggot.” You remember your mother’s voice echoing in your head then: “He’s messing with you. Fathers call their sons names. It makes you stronger. He means it with love. He just wants you to be strong. Don’t you want to be strong?”

You remember the door slamming behind him. You remember your mother reaching for the pill bottle instead of for you. You remember the plastic rattling juxtaposed over the car engine starting.

 

He meant it with love. Everyone who says it does. You tell yourself this. You tell yourself this again, and again, and again. You tell yourself that people call you a fag because they love you, because you deserve it, because it’s true.

You carve it into the same place on your thigh. You open it back up when the scabs start to peel and fall. You keep it red and angry - red, like your neck the night your dad left. Angry, like him when he screamed at you, screamed at your mother, left you, left her, left you with her, left her with you.

“He means it with love,” you said to Marshall. You sounded like your mother then.

You tell yourself this. You carve the word into your thigh in a twisted act of self-love, or that’s what you tell yourself it is.

It’s the only way you keep yourself from breaking apart.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like, if you squint hard enough, there's evidence that Lionel is an abuse victim/survivor. There's maybe one mention of his mother, and no mentions of his father as far as I'm aware. And when his mother is mentioned, it's clear she's not an attentive parent.
> 
> Sorry this was heavy. Processing my trauma through fictional characters is a thing I do, I guess?


End file.
